a race for the fire-bell. In Back Hill,
men, women, and children were hustling themselves through the
ground-floor window of the doomed house. Thick, languid flames blocked
the doorway, swaying idly, ready to fasten their fangs in anything that
approached. Furniture crashed and bounded to the pavement. Mattresses
were flung out to receive the indecent figures of their owners. The
crowd swelled feverishly. Women screamed.

Gradually the crackle of burning wood and the ripple of falling glass
gained voice above the outcry of the crowd. A shout of fear and
admiration surged up, as a spout of flame darted through the roof, and
quivered proudly to the sky. Luigi threw back his sweeping felt hat,
loosened his yellow neckcloth, tightened his scarlet waistband. "It is
bad," he said. "It is a fire."

I said "Yes," having nothing else to say. A few Cockneys inquired
resentfully why somebody didn't do something. Then the word went round
that all were out but one. A woman was left at the top. A sick hush
fell. Away in the upper regions a voice was wailing. The women turned
pale, and one or two edged away. The men whistled silently, and looked
serious. They had the air of waiting for something. It came. Luigi moved
swiftly away from me, fought a way through the crowd, and stood by the
door, his melodious head lashed by the fringe of the flames.

"I go up," he said operatically.

A dozen men dashed from him, crying things. "Wet blanket, there. Quick!
Here's a bloke going up. Italiano's going up!"

At the back of the crowd, where I stood, a few fools cheered. They were
English. "'Ray! 'Ray! 'Ray! Good iron! 'E's gotter nerve, 'e 'as.
Wouldn't athought it o' them Italians."

The Italians were silent. From the house came long screams, terrible to
hear in the London twilight. A Sicilian said something in his own
language which cannot be set down; the proprietor of the Ristorante del
Commercio also grew profane. The children stared and giggled,
wonderingly. Blankets and buckets of water were conjured from some
obscure place of succour. In half a minute the blankets were soaked, and
Luigi was ready.

A wispy man in a dented bowler danced with excitement. "Oh, he's gotter
nerve, if yeh like. Going to risk his life, he is. Going to risk his
blasted life." Fresh and keener screams went down the golden stairway.
Luigi flung the wet folds about him, vaulted the low sill, and then the
wild light danced evilly about him. Outside, we watch